


Kiss Kiss

by Blunette (Hoshikuzu_san)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys Kissing, M/M, Open-ish ending, Post-War, idk - Freeform, it's cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-08 08:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12250638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoshikuzu_san/pseuds/Blunette
Summary: Draco's numb.So is Harry.They've always brought out the worst in each other.





	1. Chapter 1

“Detention again, ‘Arry?” Hagrid asked.

Draco pretended not to hear, pretended he hadn't heard the past four times, either, because Draco was under indefinite detentions due to his particular ‘participation’ in the war, and it was one of the many sacrifices he had to make just to return to school and complete his education.

Draco just pretended. He kept his eyes on his task, whisking away soiled straw from the many animal cages with an easy flick of his wand.

“Well,” Hagrid said, “you boys ‘ave been cleaning cages for the past week. What do you two say to a change in scenery, huh?”

Neither responded, but Draco paused in his straw-whisking.

Potter coughed.

Hagrid smiled widely, pleased to have their attention. He was either oblivious to the lifelessness to their eyes, or skillfully ignoring it.

“You two’re old enough to scavenge alone, ey? ‘Ere’s a basket—fill it with the glowing mushrooms you see. The blue ones, not the green or orange ones.”

“What about the red ones?” Draco drawled dispassionately. “The yellow ones?”

Hagrid frowned. “Just the blue ones.”

“Of course, sir,” Draco replied gravely. “And what is our quota?”

Potter stared listlessly at a dead canary, seemingly fried on it’s perch. Possibly by a fire-throated agama, if Hagrid’s previous lessons were anything to go by.

“Just, erm, as many as you can find.”

“By sunrise?” Draco asked blandly, as though the thought didn't disturb him in the least.

Potter poked at the cage and watched detachedly as the corpse landed with a soft crunch.

Draco sniffed.

“By nine o’clock or so, I guess,” Hagrid murmured, looking faintly uncomfortable. “I won't be ‘ere, though, so you two’ll ‘ave to lock up when yer done.”

Potter nodded, and Draco nodded, and then they were walking through the woods with baskets.

Draco glanced at Potter sidelong, aware that the glare of his lumos would block Potter from noticing. Not that he cared. He was just curious. What reason did the Boy Wonder have for being in detention? He wondered if he would receive an answer if he asked. He wondered why he cared.

“Potter,” he said, breaking the silence that had floated between them since the start of Eighth Year. He was mildly impressed that, despite his predictions regarding the lumos wielded in his hand, Potter’s dead eyes didn’t even flinch when they swiveled in his direction and were promptly confronted by the nearly blinding light. “Why are you here?”

Potter looked back along the path and remained silent.

Draco gave a languid blink and felt his interest wane. He just didn’t have the energy to really harass Potter. He hadn’t had said energy since before Eighth Year, honestly. After the trials, after his summer of house arrest, after his father was sentenced to death... Draco didn’t have much energy for anything, anymore.

He was surprised enough when he woke every morning, vaguely impressed that his heart bothered to keep his blood pumping for another day. That his brain bothered to continue functioning while the rest of him was numb.

Draco yawned.

“Bet you can guess why I’m here.”

Potter almost tripped on a root, and after he righted himself, he stared down at it. Not angrily, just a little startled.

“Did you feel like falling down and not getting back up?” Draco guessed.

Potter glanced at him mutely.

“Because, same.”

Potter kept walking, and Draco fell in step beside him once more.

They tread along the path quietly, disturbed only by the hooting of wild owls and the occasional twig or leaf crunching beneath their feet. The animals of the forest, be it predator or prey, were silent.

They reached a barrier of three trees, all fallen on their side and covered in moss.

“Hagrid said this is as far as it’s safe to go,” Draco commented.

Potter, by his side, stared at the trees through exhausted, bloodshot eyes.

“I have it on good authority, however, that we’ll find the blue mushrooms not only faster, but in greater abundance if we bypass his warning entirely.”

Potter raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’ll be look-out if you pick,” he offered.

Potter’s other eyebrow joined the first.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll pick if  _ you  _ be look-out.”

Potter scoffed softly and trekked over to the trees. He peered over them speculatively for a moment before seeming to throw caution to the wind and climbing over them. Draco wasn’t far behind as he scrambled to catch up, not wanting to be left alone in the dark.

“They should be along this path,” he said, mostly to himself. Not a minute later, he saw the glow of blue, green, and orange mushrooms up ahead. He smirked slightly. It was nice to be right about some things, sometimes.

Draco bent down wordlessly and began picking the blue mushrooms. After the first few, he noticed his hands were then glowing bright blue as well. He peeked at Potter to find the other watching him apathetically.

Draco stuck out his tongue with a little curl of his lip before wiping them off as best he could on his pants—and now he had glowing trousers as well—before using his wand—glowing wand handle, brilliant—and finishing off using a levitation spell.

After his basket was filled with the mushrooms, he began filling Potter’s basket with blue mushrooms as well. As an afterthought, he shaved off the top layer of blue mushrooms and covered the lot with orange and green, just to drive Hagrid ‘round the bend when he checked on them the next morning.

“Any objections?” Draco inquired tiredly.

Potter said nothing, merely sighing.

“Lovely.” He levitated a green mushroom and lobbed it at Potter’s head.

The startled Gryffindor yelped and glared at him, readjusting his glasses and attempting to wipe the green glow out of his hair. It did little more than spread to his hands and the rim of his lenses, which made him scowl.

“Any objections?” Draco repeated drolly.

Potter glowered at him before jerkily snatching up his basket and making back for the castle.

Draco, startled, swiftly grabbed his own basket and hastened to catch up. “Some look-out, you are. What do you say to that, Savior of the Wizarding World, Except for Draco Malfoy?”

Potter’s single look was scathing.

Draco grimaced. “Too long? I’ll think of a better epithet. Give it some time, Potter.”

Potter sighed inaudibly.

They re-climbed over the fallen trees, leaving glowing handprints in their wake. Draco kind of liked it. He must have stared too long because Potter was watching him.

“That doesn’t look so lonely, does it?” he murmured, gazing at the handprints, blue and green, side by side. “Must be what it’s like to have friends.” He peered back at Potter, who was also admiring the markings left on the wood.

After a silence, Potter looked at him.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “This is where you pipe in with your input, seeing as you actually have a couple.”

Potter blinked at him.

“Not good friends?” Draco asked.

Potter frowned at him.

“S’alright, Potter. I’ll be your friend.”

Potter’s expression outright soured.

Draco huffed, trying not to be offended. “Well, I’m still not hearing any objections, and look where it’s gotten us. I’d say this is a good choice.”

Potter turned, growled to himself, and stomped on. Draco soon fell in step beside him, and after he was chastened by a glare, he walked slightly behind Potter instead.

But Draco smiled to himself. He hadn’t felt this energetic in months. Turns out, he always had energy to harass Potter. Huh. Who knew.

They both froze at the sound of growling, and drew their wands as a snout followed by two glistening black eyes came into view. It was a Hidebehind, judging by the appearance and the silvery fur. That would explain how neither himself nor Potter had managed to spot the bloody beast before it was already on them.

Draco gulped, raising his wand higher defensively.

The Hidebehind saw this and lost it entirely, rearing back and throwing out a big, meaty claw.

Potter shoved him out of the way with a grunt, leaving a green hand print on the blond’s chest, just as he threw up a shield charm which shattered on impact.

The next second, the bear-like spectre lurched forward, jaw stretching on its hinges and opening wide enough to, very likely, fit the entirety of the Golden Boy’s head in its mouth.

Draco screamed, flashes of the war ripping through his mind. He grappled with Potter’s cloak, leaving hasty, glowing blue smudges until he managed to pull Potter away, thankfully just in time as that powerful jaw snapped shut and the creature careened forward to make up for the momentum.

Potter opened his mouth, maybe to berate him, maybe to cast a spell—he always looked rather angry when he was in battle, didn't he?—but Draco beat him to it when he fired off a stunner, panic making him swifter.

The behemoth fell with a crash, and Draco and Potter, both panting, watched it with a sort of detached fascination.

Draco slowly looked at Potter, who stared back at him, just as wide-eyed.

“You know,” Draco wheezed, “it worries me a bit that it always takes a near-death experience for me to remember that I’m not the saddest sod out there.”

Potter’s face crumbled and for a horrifying moment, Draco thought he was going to cry. Instead, he choked out a laugh, and it looked like it hurt.

Draco cupped his cheeks, trying to steady his breathing, and let one hand slide up to run through his undoubtedly disheveled hair.

Potter took one look at him, and then he doubled over and was laughing harder.

Draco stared, more horrified than he’d been at the Hidebehind.

He pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the headache he felt coming on, and ran his thumbs over his eyelids before he let his hands fall.

Potter was on the ground, clutching his stomach, face red and sweaty as he laughed so hard, he looked in pain.

Draco just watched. He watched as Potter slowly calmed, as his breathing evened, as his eyes fluttered shut.

They didn’t open.

Draco saw the slow rise and fall of his chest just before he remembered the bags beneath Potter’s eyes.

He sighed, lifted the baskets, and walked over to Potter. Then, he levitated the other boy with his wand and began his trek back to castle.

After he deposited the baskets at the door of Hagrid’s hut, Draco took his opportunity to run his thumb along Potter’s lips and plant both his hands on Potter’s pecs, giving them a grope before backing up with a snigger. He considered also copping a feel, just so Potter would look thoroughly debauched with glowing blue lips, prints suggesting he enjoyed his chest being fondled,  _ and  _ a bright patch over his nether regions, as though he had come out of a hot session with a blue stranger, but didn’t want to cross that line.

Feeling content with himself, he continued levitating Potter to the infirmary. He shrugged, acting innocent at Pomfrey's wary glance—she didn’t really trust him yet, either—and it wasn’t until he returned to his quarters that he saw the glowing mess of his own face. Handprints on his cheeks, spots at his inner eyes and smeared across his eyelids like poorly applied eyeshadow. There was a streak of blue in his pale hair as well, and, well, Draco rather liked that.

He snorted his own laugh before shaking his head and heading towards the showers. He washed off the colors, hoping belatedly that it wasn’t poisonous and wondering why that mattered. Just this morning he was wondering why he was still alive. Not in a suicidal way, but in a, ‘why am I bothering with these people and their scorn? Why don’t I run off and become a recluse, living off of the remainder of the Malfoy and Lestrange fortune with Mother? Why not? Why stay?’ sort of way.

He sighed, enjoying the cool water as it slid off his heated skin.

Well, for one thing, it was nice being able to shower without a house elf surreptitiously peeking in on him to assure he was still breathing. He knew his mother meant well when ordering them to even after Draco demanded they don’t —“You’ve really nothing to be ashamed of, dear,”—but there were some things he preferred stay left alone. She would have to ascertain herself that he wouldn’t abandon her like her husband in less humiliating ways.

He turned off the water.

* * *

Hagrid sighed. “What’d ye do this time, ‘Arry?”

Potter shrugged.

Hagrid sighed again. “Go to the Herbology rooms, lads. Yer needed there more than y’are ‘ere.”

They walked in silence. Potter didn't ask about the blue markings he'd been left with the night prior, and Draco didn't ask why Potter’s chest was so oddly nice to squeeze. They didn't feel like breasts, obviously, but Potter’s pectorals were not rock hard with bulging muscle, either. Obviously. No, his chest was firm, but thick, and warm, and Draco rather wanted to grope him again and was disturbed enough by his own line of thought that he decided not to look at Potter at all, in fear of wanting to grope other parts.

Potter, however, didn't seem to share these sentiments.

After Professor Sprout set them to work re-potting plants which had grown too large for their old ones, Potter grabbed his materials and settled down right next to Draco.

“I was doing research on that thing we saw yesterday,” Potter said, voice quiet.

“Oh, so we're talking now?” Draco’s plant was wilting sadly.

“Found out it was something called a Hidebehind.”

“Well, of course. What else could it be?” Draco frowned at the pot before him, absentmindedly running his finger along the crack in its side. The plant perked up in interest.

Potter watched his finger idly. “Turns out, they're extremely dangerous.”

Draco tapped his wand against the pot, whispering a soft incarnation. The crack flowed with yellow magic for a moment before mending itself. 

“They are, however, very sensitive to light. That's probably how it found us. The handprints.”

The plant warily straightened up, stem oddly curved due to being bent at so severe of an angle for so long.

“Are you blaming yesterday on me?” Draco asked hollowly, staring at the plant happily situated in its too-small pot.

“No. I think that's why you stunned it so easily—why it was so careless. Because we were glowing, and all. So. Thanks, I suppose.”

Draco looked at Potter, blatantly surprised. “Say that again.”

Potter rolled his eyes, turning away from him and leaning forward as if to stand up.

Draco grabbed his wrist, eyes fluttering shut briefly as he held Potter in place. “Just... one more time. Say it. Please.” He sounded pained.

When he opened his eyes, Potter was staring at him, lips parted, eyes big.

“Thank you,” he repeated quietly.

Draco released him, ducking his head in both shame and flattery before turning back to the plant.

Potter was silent, probably still staring at him, and Draco felt anxious beneath his gaze, and guilty for what he had to do to the plant, so he lashed out, shoving the pot aside and into the  _ done  _ pile before yanking another plant towards him and levitating it roughly into a new pot.

Potter crouched down next to him, abruptly, quickly, before yanking at Draco’s arm.

“He-” he began to protest before he was cut off swiftly with Potter’s mouth pressing against his own.

Draco froze, tensing up, and Potter’s grip on his arm tightened briefly before he pulled away.

His face was still close, his eyes searching.

“Did you feel anything? Just now?”

Draco could barely hear over his pulse thundering in his ears.

“Like what?” he asked faintly.  _ Your breath on my skin? Your hand on my arm? Your hair tickling my nose? Your mouth against mine?  _

“Your heart. Is it... racing? More than usual?”

“My heart doesn't usually race, Potter.”

“Well? Is it?” the Gryffindor persisted, leaning closer, as if to hear it.

Draco leaned away in fear that he might. “Why does it matter? What are you doing?”

“Yesterday, my heart was racing,” Potter whispered, still looking in his eyes, and it was all too close for Draco. “I thought that, maybe, it was the attack, but I've been attacked several times in my life.”

Draco swallowed a little too loudly for his liking, and Potter’s intense gaze didn't waver.

“I figured, maybe it was you. When you pulled me aside to stun that thing. And when you grabbed me just now, when you asked me that. And, so, I kissed you, and it's just racing more. I haven't felt anything in awhile,” he said, voice odd and uncomfortably close.

Draco had never considered someone's  _ voice  _ being too close, too intimate, but Potter's most definitely was. Of course it was. This was Potter.

“That sounds like you have a thing for me,” he scoffed.

Potter regarded him.

“Maybe,” he said, finally.

Draco gaped, mouth swinging open. “ _ What _ ?”

Potter looked a tad defensive at that, finally leaning back and putting some breathing space between them, which Draco hadn't noticed he needed until suddenly he could breathe in without breathing everything  _ Potter _ .

“Well, Hermione and Ron have always said I was a little obsessed.”

“Because we hate each other.”

“We do?” Potter asked, looking surprised.

Draco bit the inside of his cheek lightly. “No. Not really, anymore.”

“So, yeah.”

“No, not, ‘so, yeah’! Just because we don't hate each other doesn't mean we fancy each other!”

Potter abruptly flushed bright red. “I never said I  _ fancied  _ you!” he exclaimed, voice high.

“And you were rude to me yesterday!”

“I’m sort of like that with everyone, now,” Potter admitted, calming slightly, though he was still pink. “It's more tiresome to pretend to be happy all the time.”

“Yes, well, I don't like it,” Draco decided.

“Alright,” Potter said slowly, looking at him. “I won't be like that with you anymore.”

Draco didn't like the sound of that. Rather, he didn't like how much he liked the sound of that.

“I'm not gay,” he said, instead, because he should have said that first, really.

“Oh,” Potter said.

Draco didn't like the way he said that, either. It wasn't surprised, really, and not insinuative, either. Just... neutral. As though Draco’s sexuality didn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things. As though he knew something Draco didn't.

“Yeah,” he repeated anyway. “So don't kiss me again without my permission.”

“Oh.” There was that blasted word again. “Alright.”  _ Fuck  _ Potter. “Can I kiss you again with your permission?”

Draco blinked. “I suppose. Yes, consent is important. Unless you're planning on drugging me-”

Potter reeled back, appalled. “I would never!”

“Then why were you asking such a dodgy question!”

“Well,” Potter began in a voice as though Draco were slow, “what if, some day, you want me to you kiss you? I'll know I need only ask.”

Draco wrinkled his face in distaste. “Sure, Potter.”

“What if, what if you were dared to?” Potter asked, and his tongue darted out to dab at his lower lip for a second, leaving it shiny.

Draco eyed him warily. “What if I kissed you again, right now, and then you don't bring this up again?”

Potter worried his lip between his teeth, making it red, and looked at him behind his ridiculous glasses.

“Yeah,” Potter whispered, “alright.”

Draco didn't like the thrill that ran up his spine.

Potter just watched him.

“Well?” he asked, a little too impatiently to his own ears.

Potter ducked his head shyly.

Draco rolled his eyes before reaching forward and plucking the spectacles from Potter’s face.

“I can't see you,” Potter said, leaning in too close too quickly.

“You don't need to see,” he mumbled before leaning in.

He lifted one hand to card through Potter’s ridiculous hair before settling it against his neck, cradling it as he pulled Potter nearer, changing the angle of their mouths a bit.

“Oh,” Potter breathed against him, and Draco licked a stripe along that bottom lip of his before plunging his tongue inside, and Potter, the brute, fisted the front of Draco’s robes tragically.

Potter wasn't cute when he kissed, Draco thought as he licked the inside of Potter’s mouth, avoiding the other boy’s tongue, just to be difficult. Potter screwed up his eyes like he was hurting, clenched his hands and ruined others’ robes like he didn't want it, even though they both knew he did. Judging by Potter’s little surprised noises and eager sounds, he very much did.

When Draco pulled back, his lips remained parted as he panted, and he watched the string of saliva connecting them with a surprising lack of disgust.

He looked at Potter through lidded eyes, and the other boy grabbed him by the front of his robes once more before hauling him close.

“Wait,” Potter said, before pressing into him again, fervent hands sliding up to hold his face as Potter slanted their mouths and ravaged him.

This was a snog, Draco thought, lightheaded. This was snogging, what it felt like, why people liked it so much.

Potter used him, used his mouth like it was his only means of pleasure, like Draco’s mouth was all he wanted, not Draco himself.

Draco kissed him back, trying to push Potter back a bit, but Potter moaned loudly and raked his hands up and down Draco’s sides.

Draco bit Potter’s lip, hard, and Potter jerked back with a yelp.

He was panting, eyes wide but hazy, as he lifted one hand to prod at the vertical cut at the corner of his bottom lip.

There was blood, and Potter licked it away with a swipe of his tongue.

“Malfoy?” he asked. 

Draco wordlessly plucked his glasses from the ground. They were covered in stray mulch and smudged with fingerprints, so Draco cast a quick spell before returning them.

They fairly gleamed when Potter slid them back on the bridge of his nose.

“Are we good?” Draco asked, pleased to find his voice even.

Potter stared at him. He dabbed at his cut with his tongue again and Draco was tempted to do the same with his own tongue, disturbingly enough.

“Yeah,” Potter said, and Draco felt angry, all of a sudden.

“Fine,” he snapped, before rising and grabbing his bag and his wand. 

“What about detention?”

“You can handle it, can't you?” Draco asked, looking down at him apathetically.

Potter licked his lip again. “Yeah,” he said.

Draco nodded before turning and leaving the room, fuming the whole time.


	2. 2

“Let’s play truth or dare,” Potter said, a couple weeks later. This time, they were sweeping the Potions classroom, and Slughorn was supposedly working in his office, but they both knew he was fast asleep, and even if he wasn't, he never came in to check on them until his final inspection before they were permitted to leave.

“We’re supposed to be cleaning,” Draco replied vaguely, pretending to scrutinize a couple jars of ingredients even though they both knew he’d reorganized that shelf at least three times, only to put them back in their original order. Because he was stalling. Because they’d done all they could, say, twenty minutes ago, and still had an hour of detention left—give or take a few awkward minutes.

“Or, we could play,” Potter said, leaning his broom against a desk as he made his way over to the other boy.

“Why do I get the feeling this is another ruse to snog me,” Draco drawled, still looking at the jars.

“It’s not,” Potter assured. “I want to ask you something, actually.”

“Then ask.”

“But I can’t trust that you’ll answer truthfully,” Potter scoffed.

Draco turned around to send him a look. “You can't trust me to answer truthfully either way.”

Potter sighed. “Well, can you answer truthfully? If we play?”

Draco hadn’t even considered answering with anything but the truth, mostly because he had nothing to hide, but also because Potter just brought it out in him.

“Fine. Truth or Dare, Potter?”

Potter looked surprised. “Why do you get to go first?”

“Because you invited me to play. It’s only manners, really. Now. Truth or Dare?”

“Fine. Dare.”

“I dare you not to dare me to kiss you.”

Potter flushed. “I wasn’t going to!”

“You’re transparent, Potter.”

Potter flushed harder. “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth.”

“How not gay are you, exactly?”

Draco sent him a dry look.

“What! Just wondering!”

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Potter. I just don’t think of blokes that way. You know how, sometimes, you see someone pretty, and you kind of want all their attention? Not necessarily sexually, but just because you want them to be as into you as you are, if only momentarily, into them?”

Potter watched him. “Yes,” he said.

“Well, I don’t feel like that when I look at other guys. I could care less if they liked me. That is, unless, we’re referring to my prowess and overall superiority. And, I suppose, my natural born beauty as well, but it’s just not something I’m into. If I could have a girl want my attention, or a guy, I would choose a girl. It’s more appealing to me.”

Potter looked down at his hands. “Alright.”

“I've always fought for your attention,” Draco felt himself go on, despite every warning going off in his brain to quit while he was ahead, lest he contradict himself, “but only because we're rivals, if not enemies. As long as I surpass Potter, I'll think, it's alright. I could fail at something utterly— _ completely _ —but as long as you were dead last behind me, I would still be pleased. But that's a competitive thing, not because I care what you think of me.”

“Right,” Potter said, flexing his fingers which he continued to stare at in lieu of Draco’s eyes.

Draco felt himself growing frustrated. “And I always care about having your attention more than anyone else’s, but that's just because showing you up is always top priority.”

Potter clenched his hands into fists, jaw looking firm when hurt eyes finally met Draco’s own. “Got it,” he grit out.

“They're so similar,” Draco blurted quickly, feeling rushed to make some point even he wasn't aware of, yet, “which is why you might think you fancy me, but you don’t. I think what you need is someone to actually snog. Like, for real. You need an, erm, partner, Potter. You should find someone to date.”

“Was that not real?”

“What?”

“Our kiss.”

“Of course not. That was you being a bossy tit and me temporarily complying simply to make you go away. That doesn't count.”

“Oh.”

“I know a few gay blokes. I could set you up.”

Potter looked incredibly annoyed. “I don't think so.”

“What? What have I said to offend you this time? You need this, Potter. You're all confused.”

“I'm not confused, Malfoy. Stop telling me how I feel.”

“Won't you at least try it?”

“Not interested.”

“Well, it's my turn, anyway. I dare you to try dating someone.”

Potter glared at him fiercely, looking genuinely angry, and Draco couldn't find it in himself to feel smug. He knew this is what he was supposed to be doing. It had to be.

“Fine,” Potter spat. “My turn. I dare you to let  _ me  _ kiss  _ you _ .”

Draco stared at him, feeling his heart race.

He looked stubbornly to the side, because he knew that if he refused this, then Potter would have the grounds to refuse Draco’s demand as well.

Potter stepped up to him and placed a palm beneath his chin, squeezing his fingers gingerly to prop open Draco’s jaw.

He leaned in, and when Draco made a move to lean forward, Potter pulled back slightly.

“ _ I'm _ kissing  _ you _ ,” he reprimanded, and he sounded hissy and arrogant and Draco curled his lip back in a sneer.

Potter leaned in again, and Draco lurched forward, biting harshly at his lip, in the same spot as previously.

Potter pulled away from him with a yelp, hand flying to the wound.

He stared at Draco in shock, and when he pulled his hand away, there was more blood.

“What the  _ fuck _ ?”

“Don't heal it,” Draco said, before swiftly stepping into Potter’s space and shoving his tongue in the other’s mouth.

Potter made a snarling noise but Draco swallowed it, and when Potter kissed him back just as roughly, Draco could taste the slight coppery flavor of blood, and he swallowed that too.

Draco raked his hands though Potter’s hair, unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. He wanted Potter to come out looking debauched, and he did. 

Potter shoved him back against the wall of potions, and Draco opened his mouth to berate him—the imbecile—but Potter shoved his tongue so far down Draco’s throat that he was temporarily confused which was his own.

Potter shoved his hands into Draco’s robes, ran them up Draco’s sides.

Draco made a noise, though of pleasure or protest even he wasn’t sure, and he leaned back, so Potter leaned forwards, and their groins came into delicious contact.

Draco hissed, and Potter moaned, and Draco shoved him away.

“What are you doing?” he panted, vision still swimming.

Potter didn’t answer. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing hard, staring hard, before shaking his head. He summoned his bag, still looking debauched and thoroughly snogged, before turning and leaving the room.

Draco, ridiculously enough, felt rejected, and he didn’t like the feeling, especially because he could no longer deny why that was.

He sat down and seethed.

* * *

He was still seething by the next morning, and it only worsened when he realized why no one had bothered to harass him yet.

It was because the Boy Wonder was sitting next to another boy, Anthony Goldstein, and they were leaned towards each other, talking quietly, and this was the new focus of the school.

They were holding hands.

Draco was furious.

He seethed all throughout breakfast, and lunch, and when dinner arrived, and Potter finally broke the facade to look at him, Draco understood.

Potter didn’t  _ actually  _ want Goldstein. Oh, no, he was only doing this because Draco told him to, for the dare. It would be over by tomorrow.

Except it wasn’t, and by day three of the castle’s ‘hottest new couple,’ Draco was ready to murder.

He was driving himself insane with what if’s. What if Potter and Goldstein continued this for much longer? Three days felt like three years when he was told about those two all bloody day.

What if Draco interrupted? What if he told Goldstein to back the fuck off? To stay away from his— _ his _ —Draco didn’t know.  _ His  _ Potter.

What if Potter fell in love with Goldstein?

But Potter hadn’t healed Draco’s bitemark, and it had scarred into a pale slash against the light pink at the corner of Potter’s lip, and Draco wanted to lick it. Wanted to have Potter open up beneath him, like a flower to sunlight. He wanted Potter to want him, too. Slow, or fast, or soft, or rough, or all of the above. Preferably all of the above.

But then Draco had his pride. His pride is what made him grit his teeth and sit through it for the remainder of the week.

And then Draco had his fear. Of rejection, of making a fool of himself.

All of this year, he’d been numb, and Potter brought him back just in time to get more than Draco’s libido into it.

He didn’t  _ fancy  _ Potter, not like the bloke backhandedly admitted to somewhat fancying him, but it was close. It could happen, and Draco felt helplessly that he couldn’t stop it. That his choices were either to get Potter back, or continue on without him and succumb to the misery that would follow.

He wasn’t  _ in love _ , but the loss was already keen. It was more than jealousy. Draco almost felt like he needed Potter’s approval, needed to be chosen against all odds. Part of him wanted to be worth something to someone, and another part of him was disgusted that his own approval wasn’t enough anymore.

Did he even approve of himself? He didn’t know. He wasn’t  _ dependent  _ on Potter, he didn’t even know the arse that well, despite everything. But he still felt Potter was an integral part of his life, a part he had unintentionally made a large slot for. He wanted Potter to fill that entire slot, like a puzzle piece fitting into place.

He wanted... Draco didn’t know. Didn’t know what he wanted, didn’t know if what he thought he wanted was okay. He felt confused, and annoyed that  _ Potter  _ had been confused, and now he was dating someone. If only Draco had someone like himself to tell him what he needed.

He reclined on the windowsill in the library, stretching his legs forward. His knees were bent. His elbows had been resting on his knees, but as Draco leaned back, he shifted them to prop himself up from behind.

“Maybe I should move on,” he said aloud.

“From what?” said Potter, and had Draco less composure, he might have jumped.

Instead, he acted as though he’d known all along as he leveled the other boy with a bland stare. This also gave him a solid few seconds to come up with an excuse.

He, startlingly enough, settled with the truth. Or, some form of it.

“I feel numb, some days.” He looked out over the school grounds, the grassy fields faintly obscured by early morning fog. “Part of me wonders why I’m here.”

Potter sat at the other end of the sill, his bum close to Draco’s toes, as Draco had removed his shoes hours back. He liked the feeling of the cold stone beneath his feet.

He wondered offhandedly how long Potter had been there before announcing himself.

“Part of me wants to run away,” Draco continued softly, lulled into a sense of comfort by the isolated aisle he’d chosen to inhabit for the morning, considering he couldn’t sleep. Alone, as though it was just him, Potter, the books and the window. No one else in the entire castle could find them.

Draco glanced at Potter, and Potter stared back at him, eyes looking turquoise in the muted blue light.

“We own several houses over the world,” Draco continued, and he sounded to himself odd, as though just waking up. He so rarely spoke in these tones, as though they were the only two people in the word, and only they needed to hear. Their existence was endless, their time infinite. They had nothing else to worry about but this moment in time, in the abandoned aisle of the library.

Draco could feel the chill from the window, and he pulled his jumper closer around himself. He wiggled his toes as he dragged his feet closer to himself.

“Why don’t you run away?” Harry asked, and there was that quiet, intimate voice again. As though they were playing hide-and-go-seek, children once more, and needed only be heard by each other. It wasn’t playful, but it was almost too trusting for them, for the people they’d become. It felt too much, too close, and Draco wondered where all of these feelings were coming from, if Potter could feel it too. If Draco was in over his head.

Draco looked back to the window and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool glass. “I don’t think I could do it alone,” Draco admitted, and he knew he sounded just as vulnerable as he felt, though he felt some sense of grounding in that he didn’t look it. He hadn't allowed himself to look vulnerable since he was thirteen. He felt reassurance in the knowledge that his face was tranquil, his gaze either casual or disinterested.

“I could go with you,” Harry said, and his voice sounded just as vulnerable, if not moreso.

When Draco looked at him, he hadn’t the intention of replying to that whatsoever, as he couldn’t say yes, but didn’t think he needed to say no aloud. It was a given, and Potter had been stupid to ask. 

However, at Potter’s almost terrified expression, as though he hadn’t meant to speak his thoughts aloud, Draco felt something warm spread though his limbs, slowly spreading to his face—filling his ears with a rumble, like the rolling waves of the ocean, or distant thunder. It filled his head with static, his eyes with something hot and syrupy. He felt sleepy, all of a sudden. He wanted to kiss Potter. Not snog him, but to... hold him.

“You have a world out here,” Draco reminded him, careful to keep his voice neutral—contemplative, if anything. He raised his hand, splaying his fingers.

Potter didn’t need instruction to lift his own hand, to press their palms together.

Draco’s fingers were longer, slimmer, but Potter’s palm was wide, his fingers square-like and positively tropical compared to Draco’s paler tones.

“Just a few,” Potter said, watching their hands. It was Draco who entwined their fingers, just experimentally, but Potter’s gaze was... not quite hopeful, but intent. Looking for any signals. “I have about a handful of people I really love, and none of which I can’t floo.”

Draco sighed, leaning back fully, but his arm remained extended, holding Harry’s. 

“It’s a nice thought,” Draco said. “Running off. We could live in my villa in France.”

“Can’t speak french,” Harry said, though his mouth quirked up at the corner.

“Honestly? Neither can I. Not very well, anyway.”

Harry laughed, and it sounded like bells.

“I have a house in Ireland,” Draco murmured, watching him, “right by the sea. Right on the water.”

“Sounds like a dream,” agreed Harry.

“Sounds like running away,” Draco said.

Harry hummed, turning their hands again.

“You don’t even like me,” Draco said. “I mean... I don’t know. We’re not friends. Running off together sounds like a terrible idea.”

“Hermione and Ron didn’t come back,” Harry said, suddenly. “None of my friends did, really. They all had job offerings, everything lined up. People say I came back for the school, but really, I... I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“Retire,” Draco offered helpfully.

Harry squeezed their hands, but he was also looking out over the school grounds. 

“When I’m out with them, with the public, with the rest of the school... I feel like I’m pretending.”

“I can still distinguish the feeling,” Draco said, “despite pretending what feels like my whole life.”

“But we don’t have to pretend,” Harry continued. “You and me.”

“No, we just argue.”

“We aren’t arguing now,” Harry disagreed, which, in itself, disproved his point, but Draco was better at verbal sparring than to point that out.

“Only because we’re humoring each other,” Draco said. “Neither of us will run, either, and not bloody likely with each other. We’re going to stay at the school and do what’s expected of us, because we’re scared of the repercussions.”

“What if there aren’t any?” Harry asked, eyes open and searching Draco’s face.

“That scares us, too,” Draco decided. “The unknown. What are we doing? It just seems easier to... pretend. I could go the rest of my life pretending, I think. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Draco noticed Potter was crying.

“We’re alike,” he sobbed. “You and I.”

Draco smiled a bit. “Too alike, I think.”

* * *

Potter broke up with Goldstein.

* * *

Draco placed down his watering can with a sigh.

“Do plants just rile you up, or are you always horny?”

Harry, who’d been staring at him on and off for the better part of an hour, promptly flushed and ducked his head, as though surprised he’d been caught, despite Draco having scowled at him several times.

“I’m not horny,” Harry muttered, running a hand through his mess of a head of hair.

“So you  _ don’t _ want a go right now?” Draco inquired.

Harry eyed him, placing his jaw in his palm.

Unlike Draco, he’d given up the pretense of watering plants a while ago. A spell did so just fine, but, apparently, despite having finished in, say, five seconds flat, the professor demanded they spend the remainder of their detention watering plants, anyway. 

Harry then asked if that wasn’t bad for plants, to overwater them, to which the professor reminded him sharply that they could use dead plants in transfiguration, to which Harry got an uncomfortable look on his face and decided he was done watering for the day.

“No,” Harry responded, after a few minutes. “I mean, if you’re game, I am, but I just... I don’t know.”

Draco sighed, dropping the watering can and watching with detachment as it rocked, toppled, and spilled water over his boots.

He lifted his wand and dried them with a spell. They gleamed back at him.

“I’m guessing it has something to do with me,” Draco hedged, “considering you keep staring at me.”

“Maybe I just think you’re pretty,” Harry said, blinking calmly.

“Your track record would agree, yes.”

“I’m just... thinking about what you said.”

“Which time?” Draco snorted.

“About us not really knowing each other,” Harry admitted, leaning back. He was sitting on the wooden beam sectioning off a bed of herbs from the walkway. That being said, he wasn’t very far off the ground, so when he moved both hands to cross over his knees, he looked almost like he was crouching, rather than sitting. “I just... I don’t know,” he repeated, looking sheepish at his own admission. “Part of me thinks that, like, it would be weird if you and I actually hung out like friends. Like, went to the Leaky together, or something. We just aren’t that close. But, another part of me can’t think of anyone else I’d rather go with.”

Draco felt warm again, and didn’t like it. “What about your friends? Granger, Weasley.”

Harry eyed him, as though contemplating this. “I think it’s  _ because  _ I don’t know you, that I want to.”

Draco tried to make sense of that. “The novelty of us still having things to learn about each other is what intrigues you,” he tried.

“But also, I know enough of you to not expect any surprises,” Harry said. “Unless you’ve secretly, like, been doing ballet.”

Draco stared at him. “I have.”

“What?”

“I know ballet,” Draco said.

Harry blanched. “You’re kidding me.”

Draco smirked. “Yeah, I am. Though, it’s an incredibly beautiful art. I, unfortunately, am not strong enough for it, but perhaps one day.”

Harry shook his head, but he was smiling.

* * *

“Go on a date with me,” Harry demanded.

Draco stared at him, shocked.

Harry had, of course, found him in their little isolated area of the library.

_ Their  _ little area. Merlin, he was growing soft.

“What?” Draco asked.

“You. On a date. With me.”

Draco frowned. “And why on earth would I ever do that?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Because I want to do more than kiss you, sometimes.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, through inwardly felt a thrill run up his spine. “I’m sorry, are you suggesting I’ll put out?”

Harry flushed. “W-what! No! Just—I meant that I wanna, you know, hang out. Sometimes,” he mumbled, looking terribly embarrassed. 

Draco pursed his lips. “What would we do. On this supposed date.”

Harry’s whole face lit up, and Draco was already cringing. “No, come on, don’t give me that look, It’ll be great! I’m gonna sweep you off your fucking feet, Malfoy.”

This time, it was Draco’s turn to flush. “Fucking hell, Potter.”

Harry grinned.

Draco, after all this time, still found the expression surprisingly. It had been so long since he'd seen it on Potter—Harry’s face.

Harry.

“Harry,” he said, and Potter blinked. “Call me Draco.”

Harry kissed him, then.

* * *

They kept dating.

* * *

Harry didn't much care for Ireland, and it turns out he had quite a thing for Draco speaking French (though, unbeknownst to that idiot Potter, butchering the language), so they settled there for a while.

And then, it was Australia, and Brazil, and Florida, and they weren't done yet, not nearly done.

They had the rest of their lives to run with each other.

* * *

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed~
> 
> I'm working on a long fic right now that's a slightly different flavor of drarry than what I usually write, I guess? I'm really playing on the mutual-toxicity aspect in this new one, and there's jealousy and possessiveness and stupid werewolf tropes and everything I usually hate in a story, but dammit, I wanna write one! So! Stay tuned for that, but before that one comes out, I think I may be posting another one, a lighter hearted one, but another multi-chapter one. Oh, or maybe my w.i.p. about Harry being Draco's exception to his heterosexuality, and Harry finds out... Ahh guys I'm so excited to show my new works to you!


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